


One Step Closer

by teamrocket, westwoodandprada



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Probably infinitely incomplete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket, https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandprada/pseuds/westwoodandprada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John visits Sherlock's grave on the second anniversary of his death, only to run into Sebastian, who happened to be visiting Moriarty's.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Bullets and Milk Cartons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Sherlock's grave on the second anniversary of his death, only to run into Sebastian, who happened to be visiting Moriarty's.

 John averted his eyes, opting to stare at the ground instead, not that anyone made a point to look at him. Everyone at the cemetery knew him, as he was a regular. Mrs. Hudson stopped coming along with him, choosing to go alone, instead, after deciding that the visits were far too intimate to intrude upon. John was secretly grateful for that, although he'd never admit it, because it felt more meaningful with only him and Sherlock. Besides, his therapist said that it would give him some closure, or at least she did two years ago before she realized that the visits were having adverse effects on him.

It had been two years since Sherlock had died, but John still visited his grave at least once a week, if not more. He still loved Sherlock; he was still the most important person in the army doctor's life. His presence was still strong to John, who occasionally broke down crying just thinking of his friend and curled up in a fetal position in his friend's old room with an old blanket draped over his body, but it felt especially strong at his best friend's grave.

He walked the familiar path to his gravestone, absent-mindlessly winding in and out of the widely-spaced graves, a second nature to him now; he could find his way to his friend's grave blindfolded. John patted the glossy black headstone.

“Hey you,” he murmured fondly. He placed a carton of milk by the grave. Sherlock, if he was still around, would've appreciated the milk more than a typical bouquet of flowers.

“Flowers are useless,” he would've scoffed. “Or at least pruned, store-bought ones,” he would've then amended. Sherlock once ranted to him over the limited number of experiments that could be conducted on the bouquets that people presented him with when he was still the most-sought-after detective in London. _Before Moriarty ruined everything_ , he thought bitterly. John forced a smile on his face. He could condemn the consulting criminal for all eternity once he left the cemetery, but now was his time to talk to Sherlock.

He nestled up against the gravestone. “The vet doesn't know what's wrong with Molly's cat,” he told him. “She's taking Toby back again in a couple of days. Of course, if you were still around, you could probably diagnose the problem, even with your lack of feline knowledge. You could do anything. Anyway, I brought you something special, along with the milk.” John pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I mean, I know you quit, but I just thought that it couldn't hurt now, right? Today's not just another Friday, you know. Today marks the second anniversary of your death.” John had difficult swallowing, a huge lump quickly forming in his throat.

He felt the warm, salty tears well up in his brown eyes and spill over, leaving small, wriggly trails as they rolled down his cheeks. “Sherlock,” he began, his voice breaking, “you know I miss you. I miss you with every fiber of my being. No one can even begin to come close to how brilliant you were, how brilliant you are. No one can ever take your place in my heart. I love you. I've never explicitly said so to you when you were – when you were still around, but I do. I love you, and I always will. You mean more to me than anyone else can, than my own life does, and you always will.”

John paused and took a deep breath. “Every night for the last two years, I've woken up in the middle of the night, screaming 'Don't jump!' I see you every night; I see our last conversation every night, and I replay the events of that day over and over again, as if the next time, you'd stop before stepping off that building and turn around. I have, every night of every day and every day of every night, for two years now. And every night, before I go to sleep, I hope so fiercely, with all of my heart, that you'd grant that one final miracle for me, or that I'd wake up and find that the last two years were just a cruel dream. Anything – I'd give anything to see you alive again, even for just one split second,” he choked, clutching onto the tombstone.

“Why, Sherlock?” he whispered, barely audible, “Why did you have to jump? We could've – I could've cleared your name, bit by bit. I still believe – and I will always believe – that you were the man that you always said you were, except for in the last few minutes of your life. I believe that it was all real, that it _wasn't_ a magic trick, that you were genuinely you except for the few minutes preceding your death. And I'm sorry for the words I said to you, the cruel, stupid words that I said to you, in our last conversation face-to-face. I kick myself over it every day. And a thought that keeps me up at night, the last thought before I relive your death again, is 'If I hadn't said that to you, would you, could you, still be alive right now?' I'm sorry – I'm eternally sorry – and I didn't deserve to have been your friend.”

John stood up, using the tombstone as support, swaying slightly as he regained his balance. He wiped his tears off his face and patted the smooth rock one more time before leaving. He sniffled, looking somberly at the ground as he walked, wiping his nose. The army doctor looked up and then froze. He was not alone. Another man stood before him with his hand placed on one of the graves that John never noticed before, but without even looking, he knew whom it belonged to. The man was of slender build, scarred all over his body, with floppy, straw-colored hair and cloudy blue eyes, not the icy blue that John knew so well. It had been a while since John had seen him, and time and pain had aged the both of them, but not to the extent that he wouldn't fit John's mental picture of him anymore. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's first-in-command.

Sebastian looked up, and John saw a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes before they hardened to reflect his own hatred. Both men simultaneously reached for their handguns in their pockets. John's fingers molded into the familiar metal, and instinct kicked in as his finger flew to the trigger. He felt an adrenaline rush kick in as he heard a click from both guns. He hadn't had one of those since...Sherlock.

“Thought you could sneak up on me, did you?” Sebastian sneered.

John narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “I was simply visiting my – Sherlock's grave,” he said, just as coolly. “You remember him, don't you? How you and your boss were desperate to kill him until you two finally drove him to his own death?”

“On the contrary, I believe that it was the other way around. Jim wouldn't have died hadn't it been for you and Sherlock.”

“Oh? Not denying the whole Richard Brooks sham, are you?” The two men stared each other down, sizing each other up, with their pistols pointed at each other and their vision colored with rage. John had years of extensive army training and was a crack-shot, but he was out of practice and hadn't shot a gun in years. Moran, however, shot professionally, but from what John knew, he was more familiar with a rifle. From what John had heard, Moran was also in the military at one point.

John made the first move, aiming the first bullet to Moran's heart and ducking behind a gravestone. He had forgotten how a bullet being blasted out of the barrel felt; he hadn't shot a gun since the Sherlock days, as he had come to know them. Sebastian had attempted to dodge it, but it hit his left bicep instead.  _Pity it wasn't his shooting arm_ , John thought as he fired another, which the taller man dodged. The blond, following John's example and taking cover behind a grave, shot in John's direction, wounding the army doctor in the foot. Watson hissed in pain, his vision going white-hot for a moment and his pupils dilating in pain, cupped his foot, and shot off thrice more, two hitting the headstone and the third just grazing the blond's ear. Damn, he was out of practice. 

Sweat was already running down his face, soaking his checkered green shirt. His heart was thumping against his ribs, and he was breathing heavily. He half wondered if his mind was making this episode up, but he pushed that aside. There was no time to be questioning the legitimacy of everything right now; he'd have plenty of time afterward to reflect.

John attempted to dart to another tombstone to shoot Sebastian at a better angle. It half worked. Between gravestones, he had rapidly shot towards the man's general direction, not taking the time to aim for specific targets. Moran had taken cover from the spray of bullets just as John had predicted, giving him time to reach the other tombstone, with two making their marks in Sebastian's right shoulder and the edge of his chest. What he hadn't counted on was his damn foot betraying him. John gasped in pain as he crashed to the ground, his chin hitting the dirt. The coppery taste of blood seeped into his mouth, and a slight sting registered inside his cheek. A hiss escaped between his lips, (He was trying to reveal as little about how injured he was to his opponent as possible.) as he wriggled towards his original destination and shot blindly towards Sebastian's direction.

_That's it. I'm done for_ , he thought, grimacing, as he dragged his lower body behind the headstone, leaving his upper body exposed, as he was in an awkward sprawl. He looked up and saw Sebastian off to the side, just as he fired another two shots. John pulled the trigger once more before the bullets hit him in the chest. Time seemed to slow down as they flew through the air and sliced through his shirt, throwing his body backwards. He could hear his own blood splatter out; it wasn't a direct hit to the heart, but it wouldn't be long now. His own shot had hit Moran in the thigh, causing the professional sniper to collapse, and then John's vision swirled.

He groaned, and his breathing became shallow. Everything was blurring together. The pain was overwhelming, more intense than his foot, the shoulder wound,  _anything_ he'd ever felt combined, which was understandable, since he was dying. John was aware of a voice –  _Sherlock's_ voice! – calling – and then switching to shouting _–_ his name and the sound of footsteps running towards him, lightly slapping the dirt ground. He felt a hand prop up his head and another clutch his chest. His eyes focused and an image of Sherlock's face appeared.  _My angel_ , John smiled dreamily. 

_Ah_ , he thought with comprehension,  _this is the end._ At least there was one upside to dying; he would be reunited with Sherlock. He heard Sherlock's voice begging for him to stay with him and long, cool fingers wiping the sweat off his forehead, gently caressing his face, tugging at his shirt in desperation. John's head bobbed, and his vision distorted again.  _Don't worry, my love, I'll see you soon_ , he thought, sighing with content.

He could feel himself leaving his body.  _One...last...thing_ , his mind struggled to even string those three words together. John fought the fog off and strained to open his lips. He wasn't sure if the words were coming out or not, but he had to at least make an attempt, no matter how painful it was. He would be relieved soon.

_Thank you for the last miracle_ , he tried to say. John surrendered to the pain, letting the bliss envelop him like giant, feathery wings.  _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._ His name ran through his mind one last time before it went blank.

*

_Nononono you can't that can't it can't nonono John!_ Sherlock howled in rage as John's heart stopped. He desperately grabbed John's blood-drenched shirt and yanked him forward, and his friend's body limply dangled from his hands.  _NO!_ The consulting detective's mind whirled, frantically trying to find a way to bring his friend back to life –  _save_ his friend's life; Sherlock refused to believe that John was already dead. He released John's shirt, his heart thudding unpleasantly when his friend hit the ground, and kissed him, not even trying mouth-to-mouth, at this point. The heat in John's body was already starting to leave, and Sherlock beat the ground in despair. In a corner of his brain, he chided himself for letting a tiny part of him hope that “true love's first kiss” could still save John. Sherlock sobbed, burying his face into John's chest, nuzzling the corpse with his nose.

A slight scraping sound caused Sherlock to look up. He turned around and saw Sebastian quietly dragging himself away, inch by inch. A wild fury tainted Sherlock's vision red, and he roared, no longer coherent. Sherlock picked up his best friend's pistol and aimed it at Moran. Four bullets embedded into his back, one after another, and Sherlock strode over to survey him. The consulting detective stepped on the body, digging into it with his foot and crushing it, much like a person trying to grind dirt off of the bottom of their shoe would, for good measure. His chest heaved up and down, tears dripping onto Sebastian's corpse, and he was sobbing so hard that he felt as if there was something inside his chest trying to claw its way out and ripping him to shreds from the inside-out. Sherlock kicked the body aside and slipped the gun into his pants pocket, walking back to John. He tenderly lifted his best friend's body, cradling it to his chest like a newlywed groom to his bride.


	2. Filling the Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty discovers what happened to Sebastian and tracks Sherlock down to finish the game.

 Sherlock couldn’t breathe properly. Blood from the body of his dead friend was drenching his shirt. He didn’t know what to do. Molly would know. He gently set John—John’s body—against the tree that loomed over them, casting shadows on the tired lines on Sherlock’s face. For a moment, he stared down at John’s body, and found it harder than ever to say the word he used most every day. Body. It made him shudder and close his eyes. He wished he was back at the flat, with John constantly on his case about the messes in the kitchen, or the various appendages in the refrigerator. He had missed this when he was gone, but now it was worse. This was absolutely permanent; there was nothing he could do now to get the life he so desperately wanted back.  What was it all without John? If he didn’t have him there, he didn’t want it back.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He pulled out his cell phone and went to his emergency contacts; Molly was the first number.

They arrived to get John within five minutes, but they wouldn’t allow Sherlock to come with them since he wasn’t immediate family. His legs went numb and he sank down on top of his own headstone. Was this how John had felt when he watched Sherlock’s death? He felt a wave of guilt wash over him, similar to what he had felt all those times he watched John falling apart, but this time was different. It wasn’t just guilt, it was empathy.  _Empathy._ These feelings were completely alien to him, as were most feelings. He now knew in perfectly painful, excruciating detail what he had made John go through. At least John didn’t fell the life slipping right out of his friend; John never did  _feel_ him die, he only had to watch.

He watched as the ambulance rolled away with John.  _I’m so sorry…_ He wanted to say. There were many things he  _wanted_ to say, things he  _could_ say, but he didn’t think they would have any effect on him. Sitting there, he looked back on how he’d wasted two years of his life at Mycroft’s house, arguing with him about the pettiest of issues, and not being allowed to take a case. In those two years, he had become noticeably paler and thinner from both his refusal to eat and Mycroft’s rule for him to never leave. Unless he had a good enough reason to, at least. He used the cameras Mycroft had set up in the flat to watch John. Every time he decided to check on him, he regretted it. John was falling apart day by day, and there was nothing Sherlock could do until they took out the last one of Moriarty’s men. But first they had to find him.

Sebastian Moran’s mangled, broken body was crumpled at Sherlock’s feet. He didn’t even bother to point him out to the men that took John away from him. Moran could rot there forever for all he cared. This man that was lying there in front of him was the last one in Moriarty’s web; the man Sherlock had been desperately trying to track down for almost two years to protect John, and he was five minutes late. Sherlock rose from the headstone, his legs shaking terribly, and stepped on Sebastian’s body, crushing him like a bug, like the scum beneath his shoes, once more on his way to where they took John. It would be the first time in two long years that Sherlock would be seeing the morgue. 

*

Jim looked at his watch, growing more irritated by the second. He was waiting for Sebastian to come visit his grave. Unfortunately, he could only watch, though, since Sebastian wasn’t allowed to know he was alive. He was usually here most every day at this time, and today was special. It was the anniversary of Jim’s death.  _If I weren’t dead to the world, I would fire him. And then I would hire him again…_ Jim thought anxiously as he waited. And waited.  _ **And bloody waited**_. Still no Sebastian. Dear GOD what was taking him so long? It had been at least an hour, hadn’t it? He looked down at his watch again then looked back up. Okay, so only five minutes, but he would never have tolerated this under any other circumstances. He sighed, rolling his big, dark eyes with discontent. While he was there, he might as well take a look at the headstone to see what Sebastian left there the last time. Seb wasn’t one to leave flowers. In fact, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a floral shop, even if it was for Jim.

The name on the stone was Richard Brook; Jim read it before he even started towards it. Such a funny little name he’d come up with, and a cute joke it made, too. He thought that maybe a few people would catch on to what the name meant, but no one ever did. Not even John Watson, the avid Sherlock Holmes believer caught the joke, which made it a bit funny.

He slowly began to make his way to the little grave just past Sherlock’s, being careful not to be seen in case Sebastian decided to show up late. From that distance, he didn’t see the red smears on the gray stone, but as he drew nearer, he could see with perfect clarity the blood on his headstone. Jim didn’t bother looking down at his feet to watch where he stepped as he was winding through the gravestones to get to his. Not until he tripped over something. He fell flat on his face and stayed absolutely still for a moment, begging that no one was around to see that. He turned over to see what the devil he’d just tripped over, and found himself looking into the pale, lifeless eyes of Sebastian Moran.

No sounds passed his lips. What was he to say? He took a deep, shaking breath and got up quickly, backing away from his sniper’s body, bumping into Sherlock’s headstone. Sherlock. He knew from the second the name popped into his head that it must have been either he or John Watson that did this. He wasn’t an idiot; he was all too aware that Sherlock was alive and well, and after everyone Moriarty had ever hired, everyone he had ever made connections to.

Sebastian’s handgun was lying beside his body. He must have dropped it when the bullets hit him. Jim picked it up and noticed quickly that it had been fired recently. A few thoughts raced through his mind as he took a second glance at the gun in his hand then back up in the direction of St. Bart’s. He knew exactly what happened here, or at least he had a theory. He was probably right, though. He was always right.

The hospital wasn’t all that far from the cemetery, or at least it was a semi-reasonable distance. Either way, Jim didn’t want to take a cab. He had nothing to pay them with anyway. To avoid suspicion, he walked at a casually brisk pace in attempt to appear as if he were a business man late for a meeting or whatnot. He glanced down at his watch on occasion to sell the act. He kept Sebastian’s handgun concealed in the pocket of his trousers. It wasn’t loaded, but he could use it to give Sherlock—or anyone else that dared to stand in his way, for that matter—quite the scare.

Anger had temporarily blinded him. He had no idea whatsoever as to what he was to do when he confronted Sherlock. St. Bart’s was still about two, maybe three miles away; he still had some time to come up with at least a small fragment of a plan. The main question was who to target. He had to use threatening, which usually wasn’t like him, but, since this was so last minute, it would just have to do. If John was dead like he suspected, he couldn’t hold  _him_ at gunpoint. There was always Molly… He remembered her very well. She was how he managed to meet Sherlock for the first time.

*

Molly was waiting for him when he arrived. Sherlock leaned against the wall, still finding everything impossible to process. Mycroft called earlier to tell him that he’d be there soon. Sherlock could only guess how Mycroft had found out about what had happened, and he didn’t want to know. He was happier in ignorance this time. Surprisingly, and frighteningly, he was somewhat relieved to know that his brother was going to be there soon, and he would never admit this to him on any other occasion. But somehow, this time was different. Very different. The only other time he’d been glad to see Mycroft was when he came to rescue him when he got trapped in the cellar about thirty years ago.

His only fear at this point was having to inform Harry about her brother’s death. For one thing, Sherlock was absolutely terrified of her, even though they’d only met once when she stopped by at Christmas the year John moved into the flat with Sherlock. He didn’t even know why she was so frightening. And for another thing, he didn’t want to have to console her. He’d never, at any point in his life, been good at comforting people.

Sherlock’s eyes were stinging again, but he caught himself before he shed a tear. He didn’t want Molly, or Mycroft, especially, to see him cry. It occurred to him that the police would be there soon to ask all sorts of intrusive, annoying questions that he honestly didn’t want to answer at the moment. He averted his eyes to the door, silently begging that Mycroft would arrive before them to shoo them away. He started to wonder who knew already. Obviously Mycroft and Molly. Lestrade, perhaps? The man spent an odd amount of time with Mycroft. Plenty enough time to know what went on in their lives. He caught himself still saying  _their_. Had he already forgotten? The stinging came back and he turned his back to the door just as he heard it open.

Automatically, he assumed the footsteps he heard were Mycroft’s at first, but these footsteps weren’t quite heavy enough to belong to his brother. Perhaps Mycroft had lost weight? Sherlock eliminated that thought the instant it popped into his mind; of course Mycroft hadn’t lost weight. Plus, these footsteps were moving too quickly to belong to Mycroft. Too heavy still to belong to Molly or Donovan, too quick to belong to Lestrade, Mycroft or Anderson… Sherlock pulled the gun out of his pocket and whirled around when he heard the sound of another handgun. He found himself looking into the dark, pain-filled eyes of Jim Moriarty.

“ You’re dead,” Sherlock said, almost in a low growl. A huge grin crossed Moriarty’s face, but disappeared just as quickly.

“Last time I checked, you were  _supposed_ to be, but I suppose John will make up for that.” Moriarty’s words cut into Sherlock like nothing ever had before, and he shot at him. He must have seen it coming since he bolted past him and up the stairs. Moriarty threw his gun down as he raced up the stairs.

Sherlock stood there momentarily before chasing after him, skipping steps as he ran to catch up to the man that was partially responsible for the death of John. He'd lost sight of him, but he could still hear the loud echoing of his shoes as they squeaked on the metal steps. The door to the rooftop swung open a flight above him and slammed shut as soon as reached it. He fiddled with the door handle until he got it open; there was no where they could run now. Standing there, he could have sworn that Jim Moriarty looked afraid, or maybe sad, he couldn't tell which one. He could also see the anger in his enemy's eyes as he inched toward the ledge. 

For some reason, they were both at a loss for words. Sherlock thought there would be more he wanted to say, but he couldn't find any words. Speaking was last thing he wanted to do, and what would the point of that be anyhow? He lowered his gun, telling himself that there was no point in threatening him with it since he was no longer armed. Moriarty circled around Sherlock a couple times, somehow causing the both of them to move closer and closer to the edge that Sherlock had to grab hold of the little man's shirt collar to prevent himself from falling off. 

"The final problem, Sherlock. What all this mess has boiled down to. Can you carry on?"

He pondered the question. Could he carry on? For years he'd spent his time alone and he was perfectly content, or content enough, until John showed up. John filled the gap in his life and gave him some kind of excuse to carry on, and he even gave him a weakness. Thinking back on the past two years without John almost brought tears to his eyes. They'd been the longest two years of his life, and he had no desire to relive them. Sherlock's eyes met Moriarty's for only a second as his answer became clear. Carrying on was no longer an option. 

This time, he would be leaving no note. 

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock grabbed hold of the other man's arms and fell. He closed his eyes, awaiting the sharp pain of the pavement he was about to hit. He didn't quite expect the last thing he saw to be Irene Adler and Kate Middleton's kiss being interrupted by Moriarty's body crushing them. The gun he had released hit the ground and three shots rang out, but he was dead before he heard the screams. 


	3. Death by Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Mycroft had kept to his diet, the chain could have ended, but everyone knows that Mycroft won't ever do so.

 Mycroft sighed and glanced at the Rolex on his right wrist. Sherlock was waiting for him at the morgue, and he had said that he would be there immediately, but that was fifteen minutes ago, and he was still at home, sitting at his desk with a generous helping of chocolate cake in front of him, putting his work before his brother. It was extremely insensitive of him, and he knew it. His brother was probably overcome with grief, but it wasn't as if Mycroft had left him completely and utterly alone. Molly would console Sherlock; she would be good at that.

He was sure that his brother wouldn't even notice his absence, and even if he did, the consulting detective would accept his excuses. After all, the nation was in danger, and there wasn't much that the government official could do for his younger brother that Molly couldn't do. He'd give his support after he made the final few arrangements that were necessary to combat this potential crisis. After all, the possibility that Moriarty was still alive was certainly a serious one; Sherlock would understand.

Mycroft had been monitoring John for quite some time now, including the visits to the graves, which always resulted in the elder Holmes subsequently visiting the tomb to retrieve the milk cartons that the army doctor had consistently offered his believed-to-be-dead best friend. For the last two years, the only times Mycroft and Sherlock didn't spend quarreling when Sherlock was not locked away in his room, was when Mycroft presented the detective with the milk. His younger brother used the empty milk cartons to keep track of the weeks, lining them up into neat rows in the room Mycroft had provided him. The two brothers had never spoke of Sherlock's personal calendar, and Mycroft simply pretended that he had no knowledge of its existence, which he was sure that his younger brother saw through.

In certain tapes, though, Mycroft had noticed that there was a recurring figure a few graves down from Sherlock's. This would have been completely insignificant, as many people visited their deceased beloved ones, if it weren't for the fact that the person of interest had always shown up at the tomb marked as “Richard Brooks”. Closer inspection had revealed that the shape of the man's body was a direct match with Moriarty's. Yet, the man did not seem to have a regular visiting patten, unpredictably showing up every once in a while; otherwise, Mycroft, or one of his employees, would've scouted out the suspect to confirm it. The elder Holmes had neglected to mention this to his brother, however, opting to wait until he was sure. Otherwise, Sherlock could've done something reckless and potentially alerted the rest of Moriarty's men, and even the media, of the current condition of his mortality.

Yet, because of where the camera installed to survey John was placed, it had failed to film another man visiting Richard Brook's grave, the very man that was the sole reason that Sherlock was still staying in Mycroft's house. Sherlock had finally given in and decided to reveal himself to John, going against Mycroft's intentions, earlier in the day, and when the government official had phoned to alert his brother that John was in danger, it was already too late.

The event, however, had provided the remaining puzzle piece to the conundrum; the man who occasionally showed up to the grave was indeed Moriarty, retrieving whatever it was that his sniper had left him at his fake burial spot. _Moran must have believed that his master was truly dead_ , Mycroft realized shortly after watching John's death. _Otherwise he wouldn't have regularly, or even at all, visited the tomb. Moran's corpse would notify Moriarty that Sherlock was still alive._

Since then, Mycroft had been corresponding with other members of the government and planning what course of action they'd take. The elder Holmes picked up the phone and dialed the number for the prime minister, drumming his fingers as he waited. His call went unanswered. He frowned and dialed again, this time being placed on hold.

“Oh, for god's sake, Cameron, pick up the phone! It's a national crisis!” he cried out to no one. Mycroft sighed, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He might as well get caught up with the news while he waited. He dug his fork into his day-old cake as the website for The Sun loaded; The Huffington Post was great and dandy, but he had a particular guilty pleasure in the rubbish that The Sun deemed newsworthy.

Mycroft frowned at the consistency of the chocolate cake; it was hard from being left out all night. Oh, well, beggars can't be choosers. Day-old cake was still cake, and this one was especially scrumptious – or at least it was yesterday – with all the nuts and chocolate chips. Diets were meant for breaking, anyway. The familiar red icon finally loaded and then in boldfaced, white capitals read a headline.

“PRINCESS, 'DEAD' DOMINATRIX MIDSNOG AS KILLED BY FALLING FAKE GENIUS, BROOKS” it screamed. Mycroft's eyes bulged as he inadvertently swallowed his cake. Instantly, it lodged in his throat, obstructing his air flow. His eyes bugged out even wider, and his hands flew up to his throat, clutching it, letting the phone drop to the floor, but he couldn't even cough. No noise came out of his mouth, as much as he tried to cry for help, not that anyone would've heard him if he could. He desperately gripped his neck, willing the solid chunk of dessert to come loose. His throat screamed in pain, increasing as his oxygen supply decreased. Mycroft frantically tried to deliver the Heimlich to himself, but it was of no use.

The balding man slipped to the ground, twitching slightly, and clawing at his throat. His eyes, wide with panic, landed on the phone, which was speaking to him – the prime minister finally picked up – and he hung up on one of the most influential people in the world and hastily punched in Greg's number, but it went straight to voicemail. He tried the emergency number next.  _9_ - _9_ - _9_ .

“Emergency. Which service?” a woman's voice asked through the phone. Mycroft had a brief sense of wanting to strangle her.  _I can't bloody tell you which sodding service, you twat, because I'm_ dying  _of blinking asphyxiation!_ he wanted to scream at her. He desperately thumped the phone to the ground in Morse code, but to no avail; the dimwitted arse-for-brains didn't seem to comprehend.

“Sir? Sir? Hello? Hello, are you there?” He thrashed around, kicking the leg of his desk several times, dropping the landline. His face was turning blue, and the tips of his fingers spasmodically twitched. He was dimly aware that the phone disconnected. The pressure was building up in his lungs, his throat, his head, his whole body! Mycroft shook wildly and uncontrollably on the ground, throwing his body repeatedly into the floor as a last ditch effort to clear his throat until he lost consciousness.

*

The sky was a dark gray, clouds hiding away all stars, when Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade left the crime scene with a heavy heart. Until this morning, he had been among the few – comprised of him, Mycroft, Molly, and Sherlock himself – that knew that Sherlock was alive because of his connections with Mycroft, and he had been eagerly looking forward to Sherlock's reunification with John, having struggled to maintain the facade every time he saw the poor, forlorn doctor, but not like  _this_ . Even Anderson, as much as he despised the late detective, had pitied John, although while the forensic investigator was gathering evidence from the crime scene, he had displayed as much contempt as possible for the consulting detective.

The inspector had struggled not to berate Anderson there and then – he had wanted to with every fiber of his being – but to do so would cast a lot of questions, none of which he could answer at the moment until he had consulted with Mycroft about what to do, not that anyone had noticed. The whole nation was distraught and outraged for many reasons. This crisis was simply a nightmare for all of England. Who would think to question if the inspector was shattered by the death of the “fake genius” who was supposed to be dead, not that it stopped the other two, who were also reported to be deceased, from being killed. Even those who had known that the inspector had once had close ties to the consulting detective wouldn't have asked, as it was a hard time for everyone.

No one knew what to think of the princess's affair, or how much they could afford to be interested in the scandal without appearing cold and heartless when her body lied there with her empty, lifeless eyes staring at nothing and yet, everything at the same time. Media outlets all over the globe had flocked in by the dozens, bombarding the inspector for the answers that he didn't have and trying to get his opinion, which he couldn't give. Lestrade was weary and upset, understandably, too weary and upset to see his lover right now, but he resolved to surprise Holmes the elder early tomorrow morning. After all, if he was feeling this agitated, he could only begin to imagine how Mycroft was feeling.

*

Lestrade yawned groggily, slapping the snooze button on his alarm clock for the forth time this morning. He rolled over in his bed and was prepared to return to a cozy state of slumber when he remembered why his alarm was set so early. Grouchily, he pushed back the covers and splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up until he was shaking his head, spluttering, blinking the icy water out of his eyes. The inspector carefully shaved his face, as what he had planned for the morning wouldn't go as smoothly as he'd like if he had cuts on his face.

He quickly tossed what he'd needed into the briefcase that he used for work and drove over to Mycroft's house, wearing nothing but his thin black boxer-briefs, which did nothing to conceal how aroused he was by what he was about to do.

Greg silently crept into the house, gently closing the door behind him so that it made only a barely-audible click. There was no sign of movement, so the inspector assumed that his lover was still asleep. He tip-toed into the older man's bathroom, swinging his briefcase over his shoulder. Greg stood in front of the ornate full-length mirror in the bathroom, giving himself the once-over. He ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair so that it stood up in a particular way that Mycroft was preferable to before stripping down, flinging his underwear into the far right corner where he'd leave Mycroft to find at some later date.

Unzipping the briefcase, he extracted a tall can of whipped cream, a matching can of chocolate sauce, a small shaker filled with sprinkles, and a glass container of cherries. Shaking the can, he sprayed two, white dots of whipped cream on his nipples, shivering when they touched his skin, and the base of his cock so that it looked like it emerged from a cloud of cream. He then reached for the chocolate sauce and expertly drizzled it in strategic positions, stifling a small sigh at his hard nipples. He'd save the rest for the show he was about to perform for Mycroft.

Lestrade juggled the confection containers in his arm and opened the door to Mycroft's room. He expected to see his husky lover still asleep in his four-poster bed, but it was empty. In fact, there were no signs that it had been slept in at all, as the sheets were neatly tucked in, and the bed was cold. Greg set the containers on Mycroft's dresser.

“Mycroft? Where are you? Listen, I know it's a hard time right now; it's a hard time for all of us, but I've got something that might cheer you up a bit.” he called out as he walked into his lover's office and promptly froze as he discovered the cake lover's corpse and then just as quickly unfroze, rushing to the cold, dead body of his beloved as his world fell apart. His throat constricted, and his chest started to ache, numbing his whole body. He pressed his hand to the elder Holmes's heart only to confirm what he had already knew...and stain Mycroft's crisp white shirt with chocolate sauce.

Greg shook the body, crying out. What – when had this happened? Was it last night, when Lestrade had decided that he was too tired to visit him, or was it at noon, during his lunch break? Could it even have been yesterday morning, right after he had left Mycroft's house to go to work? He cradled his lover's head to his chest, and his tears slid off his nose onto the dead man's cheek.

_Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft, no! Could it have been suicide?_ Lestrade's brain was whirling, both demanding and formulating answers of its own.  _There's no blood or any outward signs of bodily harm, but it could still be poison or an overdose. What was I thinking, leaving him alone? His only family, after Mummy Holmes died last spring, dead; of course he wouldn't have been able to handle it himself. Why did I stay at the crime scene instead of leaving to check up on Mycroft? It could've saved his life! This is my fault, my fault,_ my fault _!_ he thought miserably, still crouching over the man he loved as he blamed it all on himself.

Lestrade picked up the phone that was still lying on the ground. He dialed the same number that Mycroft had less than twenty-four hours ago, the last thing he ever did. His fingers were trembling, and his whole body was shaking so much that he dialed the wrong number twice.

“Emergency. Which service?” the same woman asked.

“He's dead. Mycroft's dead. Send help,” Lestrade whispered, ignoring her question, and dropped the phone, sinking back to the floor to join his late lover.

*

The police had found him embracing Mycroft's body, still covered in only the pastry condiments. They had forced the inspector to leave, and perhaps clothe himself, wheeling away the body before he returned wearing clothes that he had left behind. No matter how much he pleaded or what connections he had, they would not let him ride with them to the morgue.

“But he hasn't got any living family left!” Lestrade protested as they draped the garish orange blanket used to treat shock over his shoulders.

“I'm sorry, sir, but we have to follow the standard procedures, and as you're not related in any sort of way, you are unqualified to make the decisions.”

“Well, what's going to happen to him, then?” Lestrade asked helplessly.

“We'll perform an autopsy and keep you informed. I'm sorry, but that's all we can do for you. I'm sorry for your loss.” The police officer patted Lestrade on the shoulder, and the inspector watched as they left before curling up into a ball again and crying.

*

 _My fault, my fault, my fault_ , he thought, throwing paper balls at the wall. Sergeant Donovan briefly glanced at him before returning back to work.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault,_ he thought,as he stood in the check-out line at the supermarket, his fists tightening on the peanut butter.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault,_ he thought as he checked his phone for the fifth time that minute to make sure that they didn't call in the short duration of time between the last one.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault,_ he thought as he buried his head into his pillow, fat tears squeezing out of his eyes.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault_ , he thought as he sat at his desk, mindlessly tracing circles on the desk with his finger.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault_ , he thought as he stared blankly at his therapist, not listening to a word that she had to say.

 _My fault, my fault, my fault,_ he thought as he opened his eyes, groaning, and forced himself to roll out of bed.

*

It took exactly forty days for them to contact Lestrade about the results of the autopsy. Forty _excruciatingly_ painful days. During that time period, the inspector had quickly deteriorated, both mentally and physically, blaming himself for his lover's death. The poor man had lost much weight, refusing to eat, and dark circles had appeared under his eyes, resulting from lack of sleep. His gray hair, which was meticulously styled before, was now unkempt and thinning. Even his skin had lost its parlor, now unpalatably pale with a slightly gray tinge. Worst of all were his eyes, which once were a smoldering, warm brown, now reduced to a lifeless, dull substitute, permanently glassed-over.

He stopped going out, and there were large gaps where he didn't show up for work either, which Detective Inspector Dimmock filled in for. Everyday, he went straight home and curled up around his mobile phone, waiting, just waiting. For a period of time, Molly had occasionally paid him a few visits, but she stopped coming too, after realizing that he was really only interested in when the results of the autopsy were to be released. He felt a twinge of guilt after driving her off and resolved to be more fair towards her.

That very day, however, Molly phoned. “Yes, yes, what is it?” Lestrade asked excitedly, his eyes lighting up, which they had not done since Mycroft's death.

“The results of the autopsy have come in,” she said tiredly. She paused and Lestrade held his breath. “He died of suffocation, choking on food the morning of – of Sherlock and John's deaths. It wasn't your fault; you can stop blaming yourself now,” a concerned edge creeping into her voice.

Lestrade thanked her and quickly hung up the phone, feeling nothing but numb. By this point, it didn't matter how Mycroft had died; it was still his fault. He could've saved him if he had waited for his lover to awake before dashing out of the house to go to work. He could've taken the day off and held Mycroft's hand when Sherlock plummeted off of St. Bartholomew's for the second time. He could've called 999 or performed the Heimlich on him in time so that he'd still be beside the inspector. It was still his fault. He had thought that perhaps knowing the cause of his lover's death would impact or change him in some way, but it didn't. Either way, Mycroft was still dead, and it was still his fault. There was nothing left to live for now, nothing left that made him smile or took some of the pain away. There was no reason for Lestrade to continue on. He just wanted out.

He had been thinking about it for quite some time now, and the only thing that had kept him staying was the prospect of not knowing the cause of death. _Stupid, stupid_ , he thought, chiding himself. He should've known that it wasn't going to make a difference at all. Still, he wanted to know. There was no point in waiting anymore. No point in waiting any longer. The inspector slipped into his car and drove down the path that he found himself traveling every day in his mind.

The locks were still the same, so Lestrade's key worked perfectly. The house hadn't been stepped in since they wheeled Mycroft's body away, and nothing was unchanged, but Lestrade could not be more different since the last time he had entered the building. He numbly walked over to his lover's former office, suppressing all memories of him or of them, _together_. They'd be reunited soon enough. The inspector swiftly strung a cord of rope and tied it into a noose. He stepped onto the chair. _His_ chair. _Mycroft's_ chair. Lestrade had chosen here on purpose, the site where _he_ died, the chair that _he_ slid out of, to be the site of his _own_ death, the chair that he _stood on top_ of to take his own life.

He balanced carefully on the office chair and bent his neck, looping the noose around his head. He morbidly hoped that he would die of oxygen asphyxiation, too, to add another parallel, but he supposed that breaking his neck would also do.  _ I love you Mycroft, and I'm sorry. This is for you. See you soon _ , he said silently, his lips mouthing the words. He closed his brown eyes for one last time and kicked the seat away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration with westwoodandprada. I wrote the odd numbered chapters while she wrote the evens.


End file.
